Piute Log...Primordial Bear Paths 2001

 This little nature-note snippet took place on the second evening of the notorious 2001 Tree of Doom episode. Yeti, Colin, and I rendezvoused in upper Buckeye Canyon at the boss’ orders and camped out for two nights. I rode over from Piute via Kirkwood Pass and packed all the tools. Our task was to remove an enormous lodgepole pine that toppled over in the worst possible place: laying horizontally in a six-foot-wide gap formed by granite bluff and colossal boulder—at the very edge of Buckeye Creek with a drop-off into swift water right next to the trail. It completely blocked off all horse traffic. Hikers had to clamber over the monster through a dense tangle of branches. Hands down, the Tree of Doom (Yeti’s evocative name for it) was the most challenging logging job any of us ever tackled. But it had to go. Due to the narrowness of the gap, there was little room to get at the trunk and its many stout limbs with our doublebit axes and crosscut saw. To make matters worse, the work was quite dangerous, with the potential to be crushed like a bug. In three days time we made significant progress, removing all the limbs and a portion of the forty-inch-wide trunk. But we ended up leaving a big chunk of the thing in place. Our beloved boss, Margaret, later backpacked in with another ranger and the two tried to finish off the job. They succeeded in cutting the log into several pieces that proved too heavy to move. I don’t recall how this whole saga was finally resolved but the trail did get cleared without the use of a chainsaw. Eventually.

28 Jun (Thu)      ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked back to camp around quittin’ time, thoroughly whipped. I’d tied the horses to the highline at about ten this morning, right before we started in on the tree. Work over, I led them back down to near the job site. Hobbled Red and Piute (leaving Woody free), and turned everybody loose so they could graze a bit in those lush meadowy spots around there. My back was so stiff after all the sawing there was nothing for it but to keep moving and thereby prevent various body parts from seizing up. Ended up bouldering on some little bluffs up behind camp. Somewhat higher, I found myself on a major ledge system—a level shelf hemmed in by low walls above and below. It was one of those delightful glaciated granite “sidewalk” ledges. The sort of ledge one feels absolutely compelled to cross. Not surprisingly, there was a well-worn game track to follow. The main Buckeye trail was a couple hundred vertical feet below so all along the way there were stupendous views, especially of the massive NW buttress of Hunewill peak that I climbed back in ‘83—right over there! ◦◦◦◦◦  Stumbled on a poorwill “nest”—a first for me. Typical scenario with ground-nesting birds: the adult whatever suddenly pops up just in front of you. So, knowing full well what that meant, I scanned the ground until two speckled eggs materialized. They were almost perfectly camouflaged, having been laid directly on the coarse-sandy gravel, backed by a six-inch-high vertical step. Eggs on sand: that’s it—no nest material whatsoever. Eggs on sand…just laying there on naked gravel. Ground nesters have to rely on pure luck it seems. If a fox or bobcat or coyote or weasel happens to walk by, it’s “start all over or wait ‘til next year and try again.” ◦◦◦◦◦ Then I found a most amazing thing. This flat bench was largely open, with scattered junipers and pines and shrubby aspens. The sand-covered slabs were for the most part overgrown with a low-lying, wiry-leaved grasslike-plant that’s very common hereabouts: elk sedge. Elk sedge is a critical soil-holding plant in the Sierra, forming super-dense turfs in dry, exposed, sandy places—loves ledges!—and is so tenacious and resistant to erosion that you only find the turfs broken up in heavily used campsites or where cut by trails. ◦◦◦◦◦ I spotted a place under a spreading juniper where there were naked bear footprints hollowed into the turf: paw-sized, sandy-bottomed, inch-deep hollows in the dense sedge “lawn.” Not in a straight line but offset somewhat, right and left. Now, bears are known to place their feet in the exact same spots on trails they habituate. In bear country it’s not unusual, especially on steeper terrain where the route is constrained, to find dished-out “steps” marking their passage. I’ve seen this a number of times before. But what was so striking about this scene was how vividly it showed the way bears big and small have placed their feet in those paw-sized hollows for no doubt centuries on end, if not millennia—long enough to finally wear away the sedges and keep them from filling the indentations back in. There was no “trail” to speak of. That is, not like your average deer trail, say—just these hollowed-out footprints alternating, left…right…left…right, with solid sedge turf in between each. I’m not sure why, but it hit me hard: a vignette that captured the essence of an animal (like us humans, rigid in its routines) that has lived here a million times longer than we have. I was moved close to tears. ◦◦◦◦◦ After supper we all went up to visit the ledge and grokked together all these wonderful things as the light slowly left the high peaks, glowing all pink and fine. We were standing there taking in the sunset when Colin heard horses on the move down below, bringing our quiet private reveries to an abrupt end. I had to boogie on down in a hurry and wrangle three knavish horses who were headed back to Piute behind the unshackled Woody. This actually made my job easier, as it turned out: I was waiting for them at the highline when they arrived. Gotcha!

 

                   ©2026 Tim Forsell                                                                   8 Apr 2026                  

Better Than the Movies 1994

 A mile south of the Sonora Pass junction, standing all by itself below Highway 395 at the end of a short drive, is a humble brown building with wood-shingled roof. A sign by the roadway identifies it as a Forest Service facility:  WHEELER GUARD  STATION. Built in the 1930s, the place originally served as a sort of auxiliary fire station. Otherwise, I know little about its past history or function. By the time I showed up in Bridgeport in 1983 it had been turned into living quarters for Wilderness rangers and trail crew. I spent a lot of time at Wheeler over the years, especially early on. I’d stay there at the beginning of the season while snow still blanketed the highcountry. It was always a welcome refuge—a great place to relax after coming out of the woods at the end of a tour. During the summer months two or three beat-up vehicles might be seen parked in front of the house. Maybe a few horses and mules grazing in the narrow strip of pasture paralleling the highway; not a lot going on. And for the better part of the year the place was all boarded up. Countless travelers zooming by on 395 have wondered, What is that place?” Something about the simple wooden building down below the highway arouses people’s curiosity. No other structures in sight—no trees. The austere scene makes the little house look sort of forlorn. I always enjoyed being there.

 

US SEASONAL RANGERS GENERALLY get called up to start work right after Memorial Day. It’s always: show up in Bridgeport at eight a.m. sharp, sign all your papers, then spend the rest of the first day of work piddling around, burning time. Afterwards, drive out to Wheeler and start getting the place fit for human habitation. 

Not many days will pass before I take a stroll up behind the station and onto the flats above, starting out by following a faint trail that parallels Wheeler Creek (which is actually more brook than creek; you can hop across it at will). I go up there a time or two every year, mostly to greet the returning wildflowers but also to get a good dose of the capital-q Quiet that inhabits open sagebrush country. Wheeler Flat is one of those places where you can count on not seeing another living soul; an alluring prospect to confirmed solitaires such as myself. The diminutive watercourse flows east to west through a shallow draw bisecting a broad flat consisting of glacial till—debris carried by rivers of ice that once spilled out of two nearby canyons. The creek rises out of several springs at about eight thousand feet up on Mahogany Ridge (this, part of the cluster of nondescript hills filling a gap between the Sierra and the Sweetwaters). Around the first week of June a local rancher’s cows suddenly appear and in short order their presence has destroyed the vernal ambiance. Within days, the creek bottom is trampled to mud and mowed flat. Stinky, fly-covered cowflop everywhere. And that’s it for me. The relatively pristine quality the place had is gone gone gone and I won’t go back until the following spring. But come May, in that brief window of time before the cows arrive, Wheeler Creek harbors a series of sweet pocket meadows just starting to turn green. And up above the creek, watered by snowmelt upwelling through the till, “dry” meadows fill low spots in the sagebrush-covered flats. While unexceptional in any way, in May and June this is as pretty a piece of big-sky country as one could ask for. Still, there’s little to draw one to this place and aside from an occasional lonesome cowboy, maybe a few deer hunters in the Fall, nobody comes here—not any more. For thousands of years, though, bands of Paiute-Shoshone people gathered beside the little meadows up on Wheeler Flat during the course of their annual round. To them, it was home. 

            A few days ago I went up there to poke around their old encampments, keeping an eye out for arrowheads and anything else I might find. Also, to pay homage to the returning wildflowers—flowers that each spring I welcome back with unabashed sentimentality. (I’ll greet individual plants silently or sometimes out loud: “Ah, larkspur!   Columbine! So good to see you again!” Kind of silly, yes. But they feel like old friends.)

Over time I’ve learned that when you amble through random lonely places with nothing more than curiosity and a will-to-find, interesting things pop up. Pretty much always. There’s always something; something rough or smooth…maybe shiny. Something small. Or maybe not so small. Something astonishing, maybe even mind-blowing. Usually beautiful but now and again repulsive (as in a long-dead something filled with maggots). This day’s jaunt was no exception: I found two species of plants new to me. A last-year’s pile of lion scat—tight bundles of fur and bone shards, bleached gray; too big to have been left by anything else. I observed a large bumble bee with alternating bands of yellow, black, and orange fur on its abdomen, most handsome. Found an ornately patterned sage grouse wing-feather. And prowled around an old Paiute encampment littered with obsidian chips. Through binoculars I watched three does slowly making their way toward the aspen groves up on Brush Mountain; groves just starting to leaf out with only the faintest hint of green showing. To the south, a couple of minor peaks with lingering snowfields on their shadowy flanks…the Sierra proper, right over yonder. A couple of miles to the northeast, an isolated squall in the vicinity of Devil’s Gate cast a luminous half-rainbow while the sky directly overhead was cloudless blue. Another isolated chunk of storm to the northwest produced some thunder—distant, with the sharp edges rounded off; a most agreeable sound. To round things off, a profound silence punctuated from time to time by the mellifluous songs of meadowlark and sage sparrow along with the evocative calls of bluebirds and killdeer. This music, an ideal counterpoint to concentrated quiet, helped create an aura of sanctity. And all the good smells! Over the course of my two-mile meander these simple things gave me all I could ask for in the moment. I felt fully immersed in a sense of place. Still, it took some effort to slow down enough to take it all in and give things their due respect. 

            Old Sol was sinking toward the horizon. Time to head for the barn. I started back and in short order stumbled on an unusual trash-item: one of those razorblade-tipped aluminum arrows with plastic fletching—a bow hunter’s dart that missed its mark, lost in the thick brush. With no other garbage laying around I couldn’t in good conscience leave the thing behind. In the end, it proved to be a handy tool for busting down spider silk—that is to say, the myriad, nigh-invisible gossamer threads strung between every last sagebrush bush, left behind by countless just-hatched spiderling Argonauts. (My legs were already completely swathed with their silken “ballooning” strands.) 

In time I cut my tracks and followed them back to the rim of the fifty-foot-deep draw, diving over its edge to get back down into the creek bottom. In glacial till country, the sides of these shallow, stream-cut gullies tend to be uniformly steep and comprised of loose sand and gravel mixed with rounded stream cobbles of all sizes. Plunge-stepping at an angle down the side of the draw, moving right along at a half-jog, I stepped over a sizeable animal burrow with a leveled-off pile of loose gravel at its entryway. Without conscious deliberation, I knew this to be the home of a badger. How so? Well, badgers are fairly common in the sagebrush lowlands in this region and I frequently come across their warrens, by and large long-abandoned. But this one appeared to have freshly excavated material at its mouth, indicating that it might be occupied. So I stopped and turned to see if there were any fresh tracks leading in or out. 

Turning, I met the eyes of the burrow’s inhabitant. I froze. My mind screamed !!Badger!! She was poised mid-stride, about halfway out of her hole. (I’m going to refer to this critter as a “she” in order to avoid calling it an “it.“ “It” just doesn’t sound right.) Having heard something coming, she’d shuffled out to investigate and was obviously startled to find a tall two-legged prowler at her door; just as shocked as I was to see her. My feet were somewhat below the tunnel’s entrance so our faces were almost on the level, mine somewhat higher. Our eyes were separated by a mere four feet. That’s close. 

Now: badgers are fifteen or twenty pounds of pure brawn. Powerfully built, formidable creatures known for their ferocity. Nobody of sound mind (or unsound mind, for that matter) would go mano a mano with a badger except at gunpoint. As it was, without my razor-tipped arrow I might not have held ground with such self-assurance. But seeing as how we were both armed, our encounter turned into a neutral face-off. For ten solid minutes the two of us locked eyes and wills and maybe blinked a few times but never looked away. Being safe in her burrow, I instinctively knew she wasn’t going to rush out and attack. Instead, with head tilted about thirty degrees, chin slightly elevated, mouth open and lips curled back, she let out this hard to describe sound. It was something between a snarl and a growl—a long, asthmatic-wheezy exhalation followed by lengthy snore on the in-breath, running as a loop. Also on exhibit was an imposing array of ivory—serrated teeth made for bone-crushing and flesh-ripping. She exuded raw menace. It was no surprise that this performance elicited a full-on adrenaline rush, which in turn triggered a powerful urge to RUN AWAY. At the same time, her histrionics were a bit, shall we say, over the top. So much so that I broke out laughing, ha ha ha! This did not go over well. In response she upped the volume, cranking out even more of that badass badger-mojo. Fresh jolt of adrenaline. 

I had time in abundance to take all this in. There were her splendid markings, for one: broad white stripe down the center of the forehead; brown cheeks; small, rounded, fuzzy ears; grey-brown agouti coloration on back and legs [agouti referring to individual hairs with alternating bands of pigment, lending a finely speckled look]; coarse hairs at the sides extra long (probably to make them look bigger). And then there were those scary-long curved claws of hers. Claws that will make any predator—including mountain lions—not even think about having badger for supper when they cross paths. 

We had ourselves a standoff. Determined not to move, I provided many mosquitoes fat blood-meals. Feeling something crawling up my arm, though, forced me to drop my gaze and flick off a tick. The abrupt movement and cessation of eye contact caused my new acquaintance to hiss like a cobra whilst keeping her formidable glare directed right at my innermost being. At this I again laughed in her face, triggering another burst of that fearsome wheezing. Those gleaming eyes! Dark and narrow-set...a carnivorous look to them. Otherwise, utterly fathomless. I had no idea what was inside that fuzzy little head—not a clue. But I did so enjoy this unparalleled opportunity to scrutinize at my leisure a badger’s exquisite markings and terribly impressive dentition. 

It was hard to tear myself away. But after ten long minutes (which felt more like twenty), the Sun commenced to set over Lost Cannon Peak. Daylight dwindling…half a mile yet to go…time to say farewell. “Goodbye badger! It was so nice to meet you!” No doubt relieved to see the interloper depart, she snarled and hissed in return. 

As I turned to go, that familiar feeling of exaltation. Yet another close encounter with the furred kind: as always, a rare gift. To borrow an expression from a bygone era, this one had been better than the movies. And it was free. All I had to do was take a walk.

 

               From The Outermost House, by Henry Beston:

 

Man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby the whole image in distortion. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not our brethren; they are not our underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.    

            

 

                      ©2026 Tim Forsell                                                    13 May 94, 4 Apr 26

A 'What-dun-it'-Type Mystery 2026

 Back in 1988 I was a seasonal Forest Service Wilderness ranger, living and working alone deep in the Sierra high country. On the day after summer solstice that year something quite extraordinary happened to me while I was sitting beside a trail pass on the Toiyabe Forest/ Yosemite Park boundary—wind-swept alpine terrain at around ten thousand feet. To this day, I don’t know how to even categorize whatever this thing was, much less come up with some kind of logical explanation. I wrote a cursory description of the incident in my ranger log and then, days later, a more in depth version in a letter to friends. (I recently unearthed a copy of that letter, hence the current narrative.) As for the veracity of what follows: I freely acknowledge that this late-telling is suspect. Old memories are notoriously unreliable; relying on them to reconstruct experiences from the distant past is fraught with pitfalls. To make matters worse, the entire episode recounted here is nigh-on impossible to describe in a straightforward manner. Factor in this being in essence a third-hand rendering and, voilá—“fiction stranger than truth.” All the same, this is an earnest attempt to accurately portray something seen, heard, and felt. 

 

IT WAS AROUND THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon. I was lounging on a glacier-polished granite slab right at Dorothy Lake Pass, gnawing on a stale bagel with a light breeze drying my sweaty back. Gazing out over the lake-dotted basin spread below me, my thoughts adrift. Puffy clouds had piled up while I wasn’t paying attention and now it looked like rain was in the offing—maybe a thunderstorm. I’d been clearing waterbars and tossing loose stones off the trail for several hours straight and was happy to take a short break before walking the almost five miles back to Piute cabin.  

            With no warning, a deep rumble broke the silence. My head snapped up. It seemed to come from the general vicinity of a craggy peak southeast of where I was sitting and over a mile away. First thought: Thunder? The rumbling intensified, its volume increasing. Second thought: Definitely not thunder…not enough cloud build-up. My mind had been wandering but was now locked in and focused. The thunderlike sound went on for several long seconds longer. Subtly different than typical thunder, it had a dense, “heavy” quality. What…? Rockfall? Natural rockfall is common in the alpine zone and I again scanned the area the sound seemed to emanate from. I knew that billowing clouds of dust accompany any substantial rockfall but there was no dust-cloud to be seen. And if there were a rockslide, opaque clouds of powdered stone would be visible well before any reverberations reached my ears. Not rockfall. So…what is it?! My mind raced, trying to make some sense of what was going on. Just then I recalled having been told about a military jet that crashed inside the park a few years back (as it happens, just a few miles from where I sat). Perhaps this thunderous rumble was a series of muffled explosions—the sound made by tons of metal and jet fuel colliding with mountain. I searched the skyline, my eyes darting back and forth like a cat’s: nothing.

At this point, three or four, possibly five seconds had elapsed. 

And that’s when things got strange…very strange indeed. An eerie, unearthly sound took over as the rumbling faded, or passed on. It arrived as if carried by wind. But not so much carried—it was like wind; a wind made of sound, sweeping across the land. Something that I could almost, but not quite, feel against my face. And these new aural emanations weren’t merely travelling through air—they seemed to be coursing through the ground as well, though it’s be hard to say for sure. This was unlike anything I’d ever heard and difficult to describe in a way that makes much sense. 

Maybe the best way is to go at this thing obliquely, using a descriptive blend of several very different phenomena. It’s complicated so please bear with me. 

Back in the 1980s, I spent my winters living and working at a cross-country ski lodge high in a canyon on the Sierra Eastside. It had been an abnormally dry autumn and the ground was still mostly snow-free. One sunny afternoon in mid-December I took a long hike upcanyon, passing by a string of small lakes already covered with thick layers of shimmering, silvery-blue ice. The sun was almost down when I turned back. Along the way I got to hear, for the first time, the otherworldly sounds produced by ice-covered lakes. For those who haven’t been around frozen lakes and ponds: Ice expands slightly as it gets colder and around dusk, when temperatures are dropping fast, stress builds up within a lake’s frozen surface. In an interval of time lasting just minutes, hairline fractures form in the ice as a response to tremendous pressures. One after another these cracks shoot off in multiple directions and at great speed. The instantaneous release of tension generates an extraordinary array of weird sounds that travel through the air stereophonically—whip-cracks…pops…muffled booms. Perhaps strangest of all are the modulated whines and low moans that may simultaneously crackle like electricity on a wire. Once, attempting to describe these freakish, high-pitched warping sounds, I came up with this: “It’s like hearing a recording of whale songs, played backwards.”

            There’s another aural phenomenon bearing some resemblance to what I heard at Dorothy Lake Pass: the violent sounds made by extreme winds. While climbing mountains, on several occasions I’ve had to negotiate knife-edged ridgelines during wind-storms. Now, as implausible as this sounds: on the lee side of a knife-edged ridge, just beneath its crest, a full-on gale can be ripping by just overhead while you’re lounging on a ledge in a pocket of still air. Air so calm one could hold up a lit match, with the maelstrom a few feet away. I’ve experienced roaring tempests with eighty-mile-an-hour gusts from this unparalleled vantage. You hear the big gusts coming. And when one hits it makes a gut-wrenching, ripping sound like a cotton sheet being torn to shreds. 

            Finally, imagine the haunting, Theremin-like, warble of a musical saw.

            Now, keep all this in mind.

Back to the pass. What I heard/felt could be described as an amalgam of these three unrelated elements: hurricane wind, cracking lake-ice, and musical saw-warble. This weird sound potpourri followed in the rumbling’s wake. (I can’t recall now if there was a gap between them.) But they were two separate things; one did not blend seamlessly into the other. The new soundscape was not particularly loud but felt…big. Like the rumbling, it seemed to be on the move. It had substance; an almost lifelike quality. There was a hissing, rasping component reminiscent of those extreme wind-gusts. The dominant element, though, was something reminiscent to the frozen-lake music I heard: the high-pitched whale-song-played-backwards moans, but now including strains of that singular quality associated with the musical saw and Theremin. It was one thing that approached. Then I was in it. Mesmerized, I listened and watched for some kind of physical sign. It seemed to swirl about, to meander around, but then it passed on and was gone. All over. Done. Silence was restored. I reentered a newly revised World-as-it-is. Back in my skin I heard three words inside my head, enunciated in a decidedly matter-of-fact tone: “That…was strange.” Nothing for it but to finish off my way-past-its-prime bagel and try to process what had just gone down. I failed to come up with anything plausible. Maybe there was slippage along a fault, very near the surface. But no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I realized, Oh yeah…that would be an earthquake—one whose epicenter I’d been sitting right on top of. Surely there would have been some vibration, even if it were a minor quake. Or would there? I’d felt no Earth-shaking. 

            To be clear, I don’t believe in paranormal phenomena or anything in the supernatural department. Rather, I subscribe to the view that nothing exists “above nature.”  This includes each and all physical and mental phenomenon; even those that bleed into spiritual-mystical grey zones. All are natural in the sense of ultimately being subject to some sort of natural law. At the same time, the world is filled with weird and wonderful things that defy rational explanation. Mysteries abound. (And let’s not forget the Unknown and the Unknowable—always there but usually given short shrift.) 

Bottom line: while I still don’t even know how to characterize it, I’m convinced that what happened to me back in 1988 had to have been a curious effect with some unidentified cause. There’s a nice, clean scientific explanation for this going on forty-year-old what-dun-it—I simply have no idea what it might be. It took stumbling on an old letter in a folder to remind me that this thing even happened; otherwise, I might never have thought about it again. Now it’s time to run the story by a few of my go-to scientist friends. Of course, if I weren’t a proud Neo-Luddite digital dinosaur I’d do a hearty online search. And this may sound ridiculous, but it just doesn’t seem right to entrust something that feels sacred to the cold scrutiny of AI. Or subject it to one of my amateurish, halfhearted googlings. Better to honor the mystery.

 

 

                   ©2026 Tim Forsell                             27 Feb 2026 (Based on a Jun 1988 letter)                               

Piute Log...Clandestine Vacation 1989

 During my early years stationed at Piute Meadows, groups of Forest Service people would come up to the cabin and stay for a night or two. These so-called “administrative trips” typically comprised a hierarchical blend of district staff and muckity-mucks from the Toiyabe Headquarters in Reno—not exactly outdoorsy types. Several times each season, up to fifteen people would show up and just take over. The thing was, these taxpayer-funded junkets almost always turned into minor debacles. There were the usual litany of mishaps: overturned loads on the ride in…mules escaping in the dark of night…injured or altitude-sick participants. It would rain or snow. Then there were the drunken whoop-it-ups. It was chaos, from start to finish. So, unless directed to help out with packing or cooking, I’d decamp prior to the group’s arrival and leave the bureaucrats to their flatlanders’ follies, return after they were gone, and clean up the messes. ◦◦◦◦◦ In August, 1989, I was warned that two such excursions had been scheduled back to back. My four days-off were coming up so, without telling a soul, I took a little “vacation”—a busman’s holiday into the far northern reaches of Yosemite National Park, which lay just the other side of the Sierra crest from Piute Meadows. Every so often I’d field questions from backpackers traveling into the park so, ostensibly, this little getaway would lend me a better sense of the lay-of-the-land on the other side o’ the hill. But, no denying it: this trip was going to be a literal joy-ride. ◦◦◦◦◦ Perhaps no single event in my twenty year rangering career better captures how times have changed than the fact that as late as the late ‘80s I could/would saddle up the horses and traipse off into a remote area completely outside my jurisdiction. Without taking a radio! No one knew where I was, or that I’d ever been gone. [Five years later, our radio system finally got upgraded and I was thereafter required to call in- and out-of-service daily.] Once back, I promptly confessed to my supervisor, Lorenzo. Card-carrying renegade that he was, Lorenzo had no beef with my having gone walkabout but told me bluntly what I already knew: had I injured myself or one of the horses I’d be looking for another job. ◦◦◦◦◦ This trip, much of it on the Pacific Crest Trail, crossed through some of the most remote backcountry in the Sierra. It “felt” different—felt untamed. The PCT through-hikers had long since passed by on their way to the Canadian border so I saw very few humans. But while I was in the park, each group of backpackers I ran into were asked to present their Wilderness permit and they all received standard ranger sermons. To my surprise, not one of these hearty pilgrims noticed that the guy on the horse was wearing a Forest Service—not a Park Service—uniform.

22 Aug (Tue)     Up early to prep for my unauthorized Yosemite field-trip. Major cabin spiffery for the dog & pony shows so wasn’t able to get away ‘til noon. ◦◦◦◦◦ Headed for Dorothy Lake Pass and on to Tilden Lake. Right after I left the cabin a cold wind started blowin’. Clouds piled up. Wore my raincoat the whole way, just for extra warmth. Half a dozen [visitor] contacts but none after entering the park. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d forgotten what typical Yosemite backcountry trails are like, what with all the deep trenches full of loose rock and treacherous hoof-snagging exposed roots. Plus loads of slickrock [glaciated granite—dicey terrain for iron-shod animals]. Slow going. After leaving Jack Main Canyon the trail was even worse, switchbacking beside cascading Tilden Creek with Chittenden Peak’s south face above, lit up all golden. Didn’t reach camp ‘til after sundown. Just one party at this huge lake, up on a hillside. Tilden is spectacular—two miles long! Looks like a friggin’ fjord! (I read somewhere that Tilden is farther from a paved road than any named lake in the High Sierra.) And the backside of Tower Peak, just over yonder, summit towers in cloud. ◦◦◦◦◦ My Hoover Wilderness map showed a group of tarns just off the trail up past the east shore and I headed for them. Found a perfect camp under a stately lodgepole on a little rise above a long skinny pond. Good feed and a place to high-line the horses over bare soil. Call it home for a day. Turned the boys loose, got set up, and heated leftover beans. Very cold. Autumn prelude, looks like, but clouds starting to break up. Long day!     

 

23 Aug (Wed)     This camp has a small fire ring so I had me a little Indian fire last night and this morn, for warmth and cheer. Woke up to full overcast; peaks in cloud, icy breeze. Felt like it could start snowing at any moment. Got up straightaway, set up my tent, and covered all the gear with a tarp. Okay…ready for anything. ◦◦◦◦◦ Once I got camp snugged up, had a quick bowl of granola and headed on out. Walked back to Tilden’s outlet, crossed Tilden Creek, and climbed Chittenden Peak (9685) for a first look-see. This scrawny little “peak” is more like a dome; mostly solid rock with flat stairstep ledges, some of them backed by feldspar-knobbed faces that I bouldered up whilst buffeted by cruel blasts of frigid air. Breathtaking views from the summit of Jack Main Canyon and a lot of exceedingly rugged granite country. Great terrain for getting off trail and visiting the places-where-nobody-ever-goes. ◦◦◦◦◦ Scrambled down the north side of the peaklet into a tiny valley with its own pretty little pond. Poked around a bit, then headed back to camp. Storm seemed to be breaking up. Sun popped out from time to time but still windy. Hit Tilden’s shore half a mile from the outlet. The lake a mere hundred yards wide there—coulda cut off a mile getting back to camp by swimming across. Back to camp for lunch (lunch for horses, too) and a much-needed nap. ◦◦◦◦◦ At 3:30 I packed for a hike up Snow Peak. Strolled up the granite apron right behind camp and up to a break in the ridgeline. Sweeping expanses of granite and turfy gardens along the way but no flowing water. Over the ridgetop and down into an isolated spur-valley that drains into Stubblefield Canyon—a sizeable, open vale studded with minute ponds that caught my eye on the map. And it was fine: dreamy John Muir country dotted with dazzlingly white erratic boulders and glistening glacier-polished slabs. A very quiet place. No whiteman-sign whatsoever. Up to this magic valley’s head then steep talus slopes leading to the top of Snow (10950), a homely little peak with excellent views plus an impressive 2500’ drop into the classic U-shaped gorge of Stubblefield. Sat on top for half an hour or so, taking in the vistas ‘til the wind had my fingers going numb. Followed the west ridge down to Pt. 10380 for THE outstanding postcard view of Tilden—in shadow now but reflecting light from the surrounding ridges. Wow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Angled down the 1000’ slope to about the midpoint of the lakeshore and thence contoured back to camp. (A fittingly tranquil conclusion to my climb, ambling along the sedgey-grassy shoreline.) Got back to camp just after sundown and turned the horses loose. Made a big pot of rice and cut-up tomato laced with cheese and butter. Chowed down. ◦◦◦◦◦ It cleared off nicely. Ramon and Val seemed happy enough in their little meadow and I figured, what with all the surrounding granite, that they wouldn’t wander far. So I decided to just leave them loose, hobbled. Belled Ramon. 

 

24 Aug (Thu)     “Slept like a log,” as they say. (Why would anyone say that?) Woke to  a frosty, crystal-clear morning. Total silence. Coming to, it took me a minute to realize something was wrong. No bell! Leapt out of my bag, grabbed a halter and started walking. Followed fresh prints up onto the rocky hillside then back to the trail where the tracks vanished. Spent well over an hour combing that hillside. Crossed their track once but soon lost it again. Back to camp. Circled around, listening hard for Ramon’s bell. Down the trail aways then back again but still no sound and no clue what to do so back to the rocks I went. Starting to get nervous. Crossed over the hill and—lo and behold!—fresh tracks on the trail, a half mile from camp: Ramon and Val were headed home. Found the knavish pair a mile from camp in a little meadow below Tilden’s outlet (where they’d have had a quick last snack before trotting all the way back to Piute). Took me 2½ hours to find them—nearly in a panic toward the last. I believe I learned this lesson once and for all: Tie your horses up at night and you’ll get to eat breakfast in the mornin’! ◦◦◦◦◦ Fed the fugitives pellets and grain, hoping they didn’t take it as a reward. Packed up, raked under the high-line, and left camp at noon. (By the way, this was an old Indian site—obsidian shards all over the place.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Rode back down to Jack Main Canyon the way we’d come. More bad trail but beautiful silver slabs and aqua-vignettes all along Falls Creek. Finally saw one creekside scene so alluring, so perfect, I just had to park the horses and go jump in and then sprawl nekkid on warm polished granite for awhile. ◦◦◦◦◦ Passed Wilmer Lake. Rode up and over Bailey Ridge, forded Tilden Canyon Creek, then straight back uphill to cross through a shallow gap in Macomb Ridge—a whole lotta down down down, up up up, repeat. From the top of Macomb Ridge and down into Stubblefield was one helluva ride—much bare granite and long stretches of funky old riprap [Roman-roadway-style trail of closely fitted stones; precarious for equines, especially going downhill]. It took an hour and a half to go less than two miles but we tip-toed down and made it safely to the bottom. Phew!! Fortunately, nobody was killed or injured. For a trail, that was—hands-down—the hairiest thing I’ve ridden. Val would crash through thick trail-side brush to avoid the heinous polished riprap. But what views along the way! Stunning. Crossed Rancheria Creek a bit below where Stubblefield and Thompson Canyons merge. And then, guess what? Straight up the other side! Someone told me that this section of the PCT is its most challenging stretch, traversing several high ridges and deep glacial canyons in quick succession—going against the grain, as it were. ◦◦◦◦◦  The plan was to stay at a sizeable unnamed lake a quarter mile off-trail on the crest of the ridge between Thompson and Kerrick Canyons. But with all the cliffy granite it was a no-go (I scouted on foot). Camped instead at a tiny lake/pond surrounded by dense deadfall, just off the trail. There was good feed on one part of the shore and a flat place for my kitchen. I slept nearby on a slab-topped bluff overlooking Kerrick Canyon. High-lined the horses over a dried up seasonal pond. Not a particularly aesthetic camp but good, stock-wise. It was too late in the day to drop all the way down into Kerrick and besides, I really wanted to check out that lake. Surprising that such a large body of water has no name, despite being an honest half-mile long, with alluring timbered islets and sinuous rocky peninsulas—just off the honkin’ PCT. A real testimony to remoteness. More than likely it never got stocked with fish. ◦◦◦◦◦ Put the horses to bed and climbed up on my rock with binoculars to check out the stars. Finally spotted the Andromeda galaxy. (Just recently learned how to locate it.) Deer wandering about on stairstep ledges just below me. More than one. I could hear their little hoofies click-clacking on stone; a most lovely sound. One big doe wandered within feet of me several times. Strange to be looking up at a big animal, in the dark, from ground level. Once, I shined my flashlight right in her eyes. She just stared back—even after training it on my face. Why, hello there!              

 

25 Aug (Fri)     Up at dawn. Turned Val and Ramon loose and had a quick nosh of scrambled eggs mixed with leftover dinner and a mug of tea. High-lined the two again and gave ‘em each a good dose of pellets. Left camp afoot. Scrambled up to yet another forgotten lake basin but, first, up a big granite knob overlooking Thompson Canyon. Photos and binocular viewing and map orientation. Then down to the lake. Splendid place; just gorgeous. Pretty as Peeler Lake, with many rock-islands and two convoluted peninsulas plus vertical bluffs dropping straight into deep dark water. Went out to the tip of one peninsula and laid my body down. Took a quick bath. ◦◦◦◦◦ Up the long, gently sloping drainage (you’d never know you were on a ridgetop) to another attractive lake with its far shore right on the edge overlooking Thompson Canyon. Thence into a cirque to the east where coyotes howled under midday sun. To the top of Price Peak (10716) for more killer views. The original 1945 A.J. Reyman register is still there, with many sign-ins by past Park Service rangers and trail-crew. [Reyman did the first recorded ascents, post WWII, of a several obscure peaks in the region.] Traversed over the top and south along the broad ridgeline, passing through serene sandy valleys, past two ponds, and eventually back down to Nameless Lake. Traversed the southeast shore this time. Huge mistake! That side of the lake is one big nasty tangle—loads of deadfall and thick brush, endless ups & downs & arounds. Got back to camp at 3:30, famblished. (I’d neglected to take any food with me.) Revived myself with cheese, crackers, and sardines and got packed up. Rode on, dropping into Kerrick Canyon. The lower section was terribly rugged. It parallels the creek, staying well above it, with views of comely cliffs across the way. ◦◦◦◦◦ Hours later, made it to the old Park Service trail crew camp in Kerrick Meadows and got set up. Made a big pot of spaghetti while horses grazed merrily. Bed by 10:00, thoroughly whipped. On the move for 17 hours today with hardly a break. Way too much fun! Tonight, had a buck and two does right in camp, not ten feet away at times. Not in the least shy, these Yosemite deer. 

 

26 Aug (Sat)     Up before sunrise to turn out ravenous, grumpy equines. (Clearly, they are not enjoying their holiday.) Sat by a little fire, catching up in this log. At one point I looked up to see my two hobbled horses on the other side of the creek, on the trail, heading for home. Collected them forthwith. Can’t blame ‘em…Val and Ramon know exactly where they are and how to get back to their meadow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Left about 10:00 after scouting around, checking to see what condition the camp had been left in. [The Yosemite backcountry trail crew used this campsite during the summers of 1986 and ‘87. As Robinson Creek ranger I’d visited them several times since my own basecamp was only a mile away.] First-rate rehab job. Bilberry already coming up where the cook tent used to be. ◦◦◦◦◦ Packed up and rode back down the trail a couple miles. Parked the horses beneath Pt. 9895 and unloaded them. Took off afoot north up a long draw that leads to a saddle, beyond which is a sweet meadowy basin holding a little pond. This is where, a few years back, some group of researchers left behind all sorts of functional equipment and even camping gear—like they’d had to leave in a big hurry. I reported it and a year or so later heard that all the junk got hauled out. Did a sweep and picked up a fair bit of stray wind-blown trash-flotsam that had been missed. ◦◦◦◦◦ From there, climbed seldom-visited Acker Peak (11015), a humble bump with neither summit cairn nor register. (I suspect they were removed by somebody.) Had me one last bino-and-map recon of northern Yosemite. Great views down into Thompson and across to Peeler Lake. Calm and sunny, ahhh. ◦◦◦◦◦ Bopped down to the horses in just 40 minutes and got reloaded. Rode onward at 4:30, reaching the old snow survey cabin in Buckeye Canyon a couple hours later. Turned my ill-tempered friends loose. Made another batch of spaghetti and was wolfing it down when I noticed that the sound of Ramon’s bell had grown fainter. They’d circled around and got on the trail. Sneaky! I raced off into the night (flashlight took this opportunity to go on the fritz) and nabbed ‘em half a mile up the trail, hobble-hopping barnward at a steady clip. Ramon and Val were just gonna leave the ol’ ranger behind, ho ho! They do not like these traveling trips. Both had gotten pellets and grain twice daily plus a couple of hours grazing time but it wasn’t enough. They just wanna go home—I get it. I’m ready to go home, too.

 

27 Aug (Sun)     Heading all the way out today—my 27^th straight day in the backcountry; a record for this ranger. It’ll feel strange to drive. ◦◦◦◦◦ Leftover spag scrambled with eggs for breakfast. (Baaad idea….) Kept horses close by and tied ‘em up at the first sign of wandering. Final big dose of grain. ◦◦◦◦◦ We were barely a hundred yards from the snow survey cabin when a goshawk flew across the trail, just 50 feet ahead, with a carcass in its talons. Surprised, it dropped the thing and flew off. It was a half-eaten blue grouse, neatly plucked as goshawks and their accipiter kin do. I was briefly tempted to take it with me and cook it up later. ◦◦◦◦◦ Not heading back to the cabin; no reason to—quicker to ride over the old Buckeye north fork trail to Beartrap Lake instead. Over the pass. Stopped to pick up a bunch of old trash—broken glass, rusty cans—at one of the sheep-herder camps. (Oh yeah—I picked up a sack at the snow cabin. Somebody—one of our rangers?—left a burlap sack of rusty cans so I filled it up with tarpaper shreds and other goodies found in the bushes and packed it out.) Down the endless Long Canyon switchbacks. Led Ramon and booted loose rocks off the trail. ◦◦◦◦◦ Made it to the pack station at 4:30, pretty much thrashed. No one there. And no one at the ranger station so I just picked up my mail and read it over a much-anticipated burger at the Cedar Inn. Thus endeth my Grand Tour. 

 

        For the trip:       →  81 miles (~26 afoot) over 6 days 

                                    →  5 passes traversed                      

            →  4 mountains climbed 

                                    →  29 lbs trash (7 lbs collected in YNP)                                

 

 

               ©2018 Tim Forsell                                               26 Aug 2018, 23 Jan 2026